


You bled and fought for me

by Splat_Dragon



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Arthur Morgan still dies, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Dutch comes back, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Lyle Morgan can burn in hell, Major Spoilers, Past Child Abuse, Red Dead Redemption 2 Spoilers, Referenced Child Abuse, Sad, Sad Ending, hurt little comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:09:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26588674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Splat_Dragon/pseuds/Splat_Dragon
Summary: Dutch couldn't make it right.His boy was dying. So many had already died.But, at least, he could make sure he wouldn't die alone.
Relationships: Dutch van der Linde & Arthur Morgan
Comments: 8
Kudos: 91





	You bled and fought for me

He looked him in the eye, and he walked away.

And then… he turned around. Got to the top of the hill and hesitated, a vice grip freezing his heart in his chest.

His son was dying. Only a few paces behind him, the man he’d raised for twenty years was dying, and he was walking away. Hadn’t so much as said a word, just looked him in the eye and turned away.

His last words had been to tell him that he’d lost. And only after stepping on his hands, he’d felt _bones break, and_ before that… accusing him of turning on him, of being a traitor, of throwing _twenty goddamn years_ away. God, what had he _done?_

  
  


Arthur was dying. He had known it, they _all_ had though they weren’t willing to admit it. It was impossible to ignore the horrible coughing fits that kept them awake at night, the way he’d turned pale and thin, the way his eyes had gone watery and bloodshot. And he hadn’t looked well on the ground, even without the pain on his face from having his fingers stepped on and _god_ why had he done that? his face bruised more than before, nose at an impossible angle, blood dripping from his mouth.

  
  


He wasn’t laying there.

He wasn’t _there-_

there was a streak of blood, a crescent of awful black and he thought, for a horrible moment, Micah must have dragged him off to finish the job, thrown him off the edge of the cliff or stabbed him or or or

but no, thank god, there he was laying against a rock, silhouetted against the rising sun but, christ, he looked dead, and Dutch thought he’d failed him again, left him to die alone. "Arthur?” he barely dared to even try, each step slow, trudging, feeling as though he were back in the swamps and he and Arthur were trying to help that kid _“I don’t think I ever heard you squeal like that before Dutch!” “I weren’t squealin’!”_ (And what had he been thinking? Arthur could have been eaten alive!)

  
  


Arthur’s chest moved.

It was only the barest of motions, a slight up-down, but oh god he was alive, though he looked dead, face pale as a fresh piece of paper and lips blue as the sky he’d never see again, he _wasn’t_ and Dutch dropped to his knees, “Oh, Arthur,” and gathered him as carefully as he could, apologizing over and over and when had he last apologized? oh, he owed so many apologies to so many people and so many of them were dead or gone and were well within their rights to never forgive him when the man groaned, the lines around his eyes deepening with his pain.

He paused, only for a moment, to shuck off his coat - he’d taken so much pride in it before, and what for? it was only a piece of fabric, some dyed cloth - and fold it up, put it in his lap as a pillow before carefully laying Arthur down, head cradled gently. “I know son, I know, it’s okay, I’ve got you.”

Those eyes squinted, opened if only just barely, blue-green already beginning to haze over, and Dutch’s brown eyes were hazy for a wholly different reason, “Oh _Arthur,_ I’m so sorry,” he ran his fingers through the man’s hair, remembering when he was so much younger and would wake screaming and whimpering and sobbing, terrified of a man long-dead, and they’d bring him into their bedrolls, curl around him and reassure him that he was safe and that they’d never allow harm to come to him (and what a liar he’d been!) as they stroked his hair until he fell asleep.

“Du-,” his name died in his boy’s throat, the sound breaking into a horrible, hacking cough, and all Dutch could do was cradle him, try to soothe him as he coughed and fought for breath, splattered blood down his front and felt his heart race, prayed that this wouldn’t be it, that Arthur wouldn’t die suffering, choking and coughing and drowning in his own blood.

Thank god, thank _god,_ but Arthur managed to catch his breath just as Dutch began to really and truly panic, the tiniest of wheezes between splutters, and as carefully as he could Dutch propped him up, rubbing his back and murmuring, trying to encourage him to breathe, “Easy, Arthur, that’s it, that’s it,”

Finally he slumped down again into his lap, though his weight was noticeably heavier, and Dutch’s heart refused to stop bounding in his throat.

“Du-,”

“I’m here, son, I’m here,” Dutch grabbed his hand, pale and cold in his, and leaned over him, and the force of Arthur’s gaze when it locked on his almost stole his breath away,

“Dutch, _Dutch,_ he’s-” his voice cracked and he began to choke again, coughing, and Dutch hurried to prop him up again, murmuring and humming some tuneless song he’d heard a very long time ago, uncaring of the blood that soaked his front, staining his pinstripe shirt, already well set in on his cuffs.

“Rat,” Arthur choked out, and Dutch’s heart clenched - even _dying,_ unable to breathe around lungs full of blood, he was trying to warn him, “‘s rat, Dutch, Micah’s _rat-”_ and his strength faded, slumping back into Dutch’s lap, still gasping Micah’s name though Dutch tried to insist “I know, son, I know,” but whether Arthur had stopped registering that he was there or thought he was simply placating a dying man, he didn’t stop, kept trying to warn him.

“Dutch…”

His eyes darted around frantically, breathing picking up, rapid and frantic but not productive enough to bring in any air - at least it seemed so, and Dutch had never thought he’d be so panicked by a _lack_ of coughing, of rasping or gurgling,

“You gotta… gotta let’m go, _please,”_ and it took a moment for Dutch to put it together - the women, John and his family, those what had already left. Arthur’s mind was going, and going fast.

“Dutch… please, let’m go,” his eyes darted this way and that, breathing beginning to slow, and Dutch nodded, trying to look reassuring though he was fighting sobs, forcing his face not to twist into a grimace though his lips were straining downward, eyes burning.

“I will, Arthur, I swear it,” _they’re already gone,_ and though he’d raged when he’d woken to find them gone now he was glad for it - who knew how many of them would have died? At least it had only been Susan (oh, poor Susan she deserved so much better!), they could fight but even the best of them had fled under the onslaught and the Reverend and Pearson, Miss Jackson and the rest weren’t anywhere close to ‘the best’, so he could only hope that they’d reached safety, wherever they’d gone.

_‘John. John made it.’_ and god, but he hoped so. He was losing one son, had lost his dearest, oldest friend, had destroyed his family. Losing his last son would kill him.

Though, watching Arthur slowly relax into his lap, blinking long and slow but still gasping, spluttering nonsensically, he thought that this might just kill him, too.

  
  


“It’s okay, son, it’s okay. You’ve done _so good,_ I’m so proud of you.” He knew what Arthur needed to hear and _oh,_ but it hurt, he wanted to scream and to rage but if it would put Arthur at peace then he would say it. “It’s okay, Arthur. You can sleep now. We’re all… we’re all okay, you’ve earned your rest.”

Arthur’s eyes never left his as he breathed in deep, then gave a last, rattling exhale, then breathed no more.


End file.
